HOW GOD BROUGHT A MAN AND A WOMAN TOGETHER

The last thing I ever expected life to throw at me was divorce.  I took our wedding vows dead serious; till death us do part.  Period.  Neither my parents nor my husband’s parents ever talked about such things much less did them.  It wasn’t even an option for them.  I remember asking my dad once at the age of 14 why he stayed married to mother.  They’d just had another one of their big fights three days before, and hadn’t spoken to each other since.  At that time I had no memories of them being affectionate, or even kind to one another.  Mother would get fed up about something, and go on a tirade.  Vicious words spilled out creating volumes of heated accusations.  My dad wouldn’t say a word.  He’d go silent, leaving the one-sided conversation figuratively, and eventually literally by exiting the room.  My dad thought a moment about this sincere question from his teenage firstborn.  “I stay because of you girls.  If I left your mother the court would give her custody.  My whole life is you three girls.”  

This incident occurred in the 60‘s when, in the great majority of divorce cases, the mother got custody of the kids.  My dad wasn’t exaggerating when he told me us girls were his life.  He was the most devoted of fathers.  Everything he did was for us.  All his leisure time was dedicated to us.  He dropped everything if we requested a ride somewhere.  He was always available to assist with homework, or school assignments.  Weekends were spent doing whatever we wanted; shopping, roller skating, movies, picnics, swimming and eating out.  He always accompanied us.  Our friends loved my dad because he regularly included them in these fun activities.  Vacations were planned around what us girls wanted to do, and my mother was not consulted.  But my parents, products of the Great Depression and WWII, stayed together in spite of their lack of relationship, because that’s just what you did for the sake of the children.

But that wasn’t a good enough reason for me to stay in a miserable marriage.  I desired relationship with my husband of fifteen years, and affection, and communication.  These things gradually disappeared over the childbearing years in spite of my efforts.  Of course the story of what happened and why is much more complicated then that, but for now that's all I want to say.  So at the age of 37 I found myself separated, with our 9, 11 and 13 year old children.  On welfare, with no car, and no job skills I found myself back in school at our local state college.  In 1988 the government had a program to assist “displaced” homemakers who only had a few years left to acquire a college degree.  I qualified to continue receiving welfare and food stamps while finishing up my college education!  A part time job on campus enabled me to buy books and school supplies.  I excelled in my studies, earning a 4 point each term.  This qualified me for another wonderful program.  The college rewarded low income adults who kept a 3.5 GPA or higher with a tuition waver.

Life was full with parenting, studying, and working.  But I still found time to join the speech club, and participate in theater productions.  In spite of all this busyness and fulfilling activities I felt hollow.  I treasured the idea of sharing my whole life with a forever partner.  I’d always imagined myself married.  Life had to be absolutely miserable for several years before I walked out the door on the marriage of my youth.  After a year and a half of separation I was so distraught with single life that I told the father of my children I would not file for divorce.  I wanted to just separate with the hope we could perhaps make another attempt at reconciling.  With tears I asked his forgiveness for the pain I caused him, and pleaded with him to give our marriage another chance.  His response was a firm, “No”.  He said he didn’t trust me, didn’t need me, and was enjoying his life without me.  There was clearly no discussing the option.  He would file for divorce since I wouldn’t.  This was in August of 1989.

Firmly closing this door filled me with such sorrow.  I don’t want anyone to misunderstand me.  I didn’t miss the cruelty, or the rejection, or the emotional pain inflicted on me.   But I would miss never being married again.  I said to myself, “No man is going to have anything to do with a divorced woman on welfare with three teenagers.”  There was a second reason I gave up my dream of sharing life’s joys and sorrows with a partner.  The deacons of my Baptist church made it clear I would be going against God’s will to date or pursue a relationship with another man because the divorce wasn’t a result of adultery.  They explained to me that I would have to remain single the remainder of my life.  This church doctrine left me feeling unworthy and damaged; unfit to be another man’s wife.  A door slammed forever shut.  Part of my womanhood was being smothered and chocked into submission.  I went unwillingly down that road.

In the book of Micah (chapter 4, verse 12) in the Bible it states, “But they do not know the thoughts of the Lord; they do not understand His plan.”  How true this proved to be in my life!  The month after my husband shut the door on our reconciling I met the man who would become my “forever partner”.  

Here I was approaching the fall term of my Junior year, and my advisor noticed my lack of science credits.  I hated science and avoided these classes because I was afraid a poor grade would ruin the perfect grade point average I’d achieved.  But the advisor reminded me I could not get my degree without fifteen credits of science.  So on his advice I took Geology 201 with Dr. Jay Van Tassell.

The first day of class blew away all my preconceived ideas of what a nightmare science might be for me.  The instructor was humorous, self-effacing, and piqued my curiosity about rocks.  I’d always imagined scientists to be serious and droll, but Dr. Van Tassell was anything but.  He kept this class of 40 students on their toes, inviting interaction and questions.  One minute he’d be in front of the blackboard lecturing, and next minute he’d be standing on a desk in one quick leap!  He never stood still, and used grand gestures to reinforce his point.  We headed outside for part of the class to practice using a  piece of surveying equipment.  Dr. Van Tassell brought his camera with him, and took a photo of me using the instrument.  That would be a foreshadowing!  

But the one physical characteristic which stood out to me that afternoon was this man’s deeply etched smile lines in his deeply tanned face.  This was someone who appeared to be a happy person; a positive person.  He obviously spent a lot of time outdoors also.    The next thing I looked for was a wedding ring.  Just a watch.  Somehow I knew this man wasn’t married, but why wasn’t he married!?!  I decided during that first class to get to know this person better.

Fall term began on Thursday, and on the following Saturday I was hired as a clown for the downtown “Crazy Days” at One Smart Cookie, a little eatery I worked at occasionally.  Arriving in full costume and make-up to stand in front of the store, who should be setting up a table with a rock display right next to me but Dr. Van Tassell!  I couldn’t pass up such a great opportunity to surprise him.  “How are you doing, Dr. Van Tassell?”  He got this shocked expression on his face that a clown would know his name and asked, “Do I know you?  And please call me Jay.”  I explained that I was in his 201 Geology class at the college, and that I would introduce myself to him on Monday.  Once again he pulled out his camera to take my photograph!

The following Monday I presented Dr. Van Tassell with his very own rubber clown nose, and introduced myself.  He reminded me once again to call him Jay, and laughed at the bright crimson nose.  I noticed for the first time how thin he was so I decided to bring him some cookies and milk from One Smart Cookie sometime in the near future.  He seldom left his office during the noon-hour just before our 1PM class so I began popping in on him to visit during that time.  

During our noon-hour visits I learned much about Jay.  He was single, from New York, and dedicated to teaching.  This was only his second year at Eastern.  He was my age, 37 years old.  And he loved the cookies and milk I brought him on a regular basis!  He didn’t like taking time out to eat lunch when he was working, so he really appreciated the snacks I brought.  

Two weeks into fall term our class traveled in vans on our first geology field trip to Boulder Park Landslide, and up the neck of a volcanic cone by the name of Sawtooth Crater.  I observed him go up and down the steep trail three different times to keep track of those of us who straggled.  Four years before I had a twelve inch titanium rod placed internally along my spine, and my back was fused due to scoliosis.  Needless to say, as a “non-traditional” (meaning older then average) student, and hampered by my back I was the last person to make it up the mountain.  In the school van on our way home I thought to myself, “Jay would only be attracted to someone who could keep up with him physically.  He’d probably be drawn to an in-shape female athletic type.”  

It became my goal to get to know the teaching assistant for this class because Jay seemed to like her a lot.  Her name was Connie, she was a 37 year old divorcee on welfare with three kids my age; my exact circumstances!  What were the odds of that?  She invited me and my youngest son to come along to a folk dance out at Hot Lake which she and Jay were headed to one evening with her youngest daughter.  I was thrilled to be invited.  I asked Connie if she was as interested in Jay as he seemed to be with her, and she assured me, “No.  He isn’t my type.  But if you are interested in him go for it.”  I simply blushed.

The night of the folk dance arrived, and Connie canceled at the last minute.  Jay was obviously upset, but asked me if I and my son would like to go with him anyway.  I said yes, and we had a fun evening in spite of Jay’s disappointment at being “stood up” by Connie.  It didn’t take him long to realize his interest in Connie wasn’t reciprocated.  If the object of his admiration hadn’t been in a situation so similar to mine I would have never thought I had a chance with this fascinating man.  I’m very thankful for Connie, and our eerily similar circumstances!

As our noon-hour visits continued I began to figure out why this delightful guy was not married.  To put it simply, he was shy.  Watching him in the classroom you would never know this.  His excellent teaching skills, and confident leadership style kept this side of his personality very well hidden.  But outside of the classroom he was awkward, and uncomfortable taking the lead.  With our month-long Christmas break about to begin I decided to make the first move, and ask Jay out on a date.  But I didn’t want to get him into trouble with the administration so I approached my advisor. “What are the rules about student/teacher dating?” was my question.  He asked about our ages.  When I explained we were the same age he simply said with a grin, “Have fun!”

I was performing in a student-directed stage comedy the last day of fall term finals.  This would be a perfect show to invite Jay to attend, followed by the cast and crew party at the director’s house just a few blocks from campus.  Jay seemed not a bit surprised when I asked him to join me.  At the party the two of us conversed in a corner, and forgot anyone else was at the house, focusing totally on each other for two hours.  As the evening came to an end Jay and I agreed to meet the next day, and the next, and the next.  Christmas tree cutting, cooking dinners with my kids, long drives in the woods, and lots and lots of talking filled our days.  I sensed no discomfort on his part concerning me having three children, or being on welfare.  He was very relaxed around my kids, and treated them like college students; with respect and courtesy. 

Jay also respected my physical boundaries, and need for being in control of our physical relationship.  As an incest survivor I had a lot of reservations about intimacy.  My husband was the only man I’d ever slept with.  One afternoon while watching a movie at my house Jay leaned in for a kiss.  This sent me into a panic.  Explaining I needed to be in control, even so far as holding hands, Jay agreed to respect my request.  This impressed me beyond words.  I didn’t want anything to stand in the way of our getting to know each other in the deepest sense of the word.  I’d seen couples engaging in physical intimacy too soon get in the way of developing real intimacy.        

We did not miss a single day enjoying each other’s company throughout December until Christmas week.  Jay explained he always spent the week of Christmas with his family in New York.  The night before he left to fly back east Jay brought over a large gift-wrapped box with my name on it.  My nine year old son joined us that evening, and he couldn’t wait to see what was in the box.  I sat on the floor in front of our Christmas tree, and ripped the paper off the box.  My son shouted, “Mom, it’s a microwave!”  I assured my son it was not a microwave; the gift was just packed in an empty microwave box.  But as I opened it there was indeed a brand new microwave inside.  A microwave!  I'd spent 15 years of marriage in poverty.  I’d never owned a new appliance of any kind.  Yet here sat a brand new microwave with my name on it.  I began to cry, and my son hugged me.  “Why are you crying, mom?”  How do I explain not feeling worthy of such a wonderfully thoughtful gift?  How do I explain being overwhelmed by such generosity?  “I’m crying because I’m happy.” came my simple answer.

That was just one of many times I witnessed Jay’s generosity towards others.  Jay did not covet material things.  He dressed like a pauper in t-shirts, and worn out work pants, and old long sleeve wool shirts with worn collars.  He drove a 1979 Volvo station wagon.  He was house sitting that year in a small one bedroom solar-heated cabin.  The only things inside that were his were some David Muench framed prints, a couple of spider plants, his sound system, and harmonicas.  Jay stored his personal geology and camping equipment, and rock collection in the geology department at school.  A simple life-style suited him.  It certainly matched the way he dressed!  Hard to imagine him growing up in Westchester County, New York on a private lake just an hour from Manhatten.  Jay assured me Eastern Oregon felt like home to him, and he would choose it over Westchester County any day.

Jay flew east to spend the holiday with his family.  Seven days later he arrived back home in an Eastern Oregon blizzard.  Calling his home phone over and over (this was before cell phones) he finally picked up at 2 AM after a treacherous drive over the mountains from the nearest airport, an hour’s drive away.  Those seven days felt more like seven weeks to me.  Missing him terribly I asked,  “Do you want to come over and tell me about your trip?”  He drove straight to my house.  After a few hours we both confessed our deep feelings for each other, and Jay asked if he could kiss me.  It was a lovely, gentle kiss!  I put on a cassette tape of romantic folk music, and we danced and danced around the small kitchen floor of my rental home.  Reluctantly, he finally drove home to get some sleep.

The weekend before winter term began in January Jay and I headed to Lehman Hot Springs for a delightful soak in the outdoor springs while snow fell all around us.  Magical!  That evening after a meal of mexican food Jay sat me down in his office to view slides of his family back in New York.  When he got to photos of his sister’s wedding he commented, “If I was getting married I would want it outdoors in the mountains.  By a glacial lake would be perfect.”  A look of surprise came over Jay’s face, and his hand went up to his mouth.  “I think I’m asking you to marry me!”  These words, spoken in slight astonishment, turned his face crimson.  This man was a confirmed bachelor; his whole life dedicated to the avocation of teaching.  The summer months were spent taking care of his mother and her home, and traveling.  At 37 years old he’d never dated until I came along.  So to find himself talking marriage took him by surprise as much as it did me!  I just grinned as I answered, “I think I’m saying Yes!”

We discussed the wisdom of a long engagement to give my children a chance to adjust to the idea.  And his mother would need time to adjust to sharing her son with another woman.  But there was another reason we decided to wait a year and a half.  Jay wanted to enjoy the experience of dating before getting married.  This was all new to him; his first kiss, first dance, first date movie, first Ferris wheel ride!  He wanted to enjoy all these firsts.  I could't argue with that!  So after one month of officially dating we set the date of our wedding for June 29th of 1991, a year and a half away.  

The first day of winter term I sat across from my advisor.  Trying hard to mask my giddiness I  asked with all the seriousness I could muster, “What are the rules about a student marrying their professor?”  He looked up from the paperwork on his desk, and responded, “Wow, April.  You work fast!  Have fun!”

By the time I graduated I had eight different geology courses to my credit.  And I kept my perfect GPA.  But I assure you I worked harder for my A's than any other student because Jay didn't want any hint of impropriety!  Jay says the day he took my photo during class is the first and only time he has ever taken a student's photo on the very first day of class.  He keeps that photo on the desk in his office at school!

On a cold, rainy day on June 29th we were married outdoors at Anthony Lakes; a beautiful glacial lake at 7,000 feet elevation.  With snow on the ground and umbrellas over our heads a pastor and his wife united us in marriage.  Jay did not want me to put an announcement in the paper because he values his privacy.  However, he forgot the student he'd invited to video tape our ceremony also worked at the local newspaper.  Returning from our honeymoon to the coast we discovered our wedding photo on the front half page of the newspaper!  I thought it was a great surprise.    

Jay and I celebrated our 23rd wedding anniversary in June of 2014.  We’ve had our ups and downs, but I’ve never regretted accepting Jay’s “surprise” proposal that January in 1990.  My children grew to love him, and they each consider him a good friend.  Jay never lost his servant’s heart.  He has literally cared for me in sickness and in health!  Twice I have come close to dying, and Jay cared for me until I was well.  I found a new church family when the Baptist church informed me of their disapproval of my dating.  They also disapproved because Jay was not of my faith.  He comes from a Quaker background.  But we found a church body that loves and accepts both Jay and I unconditionally!  I have no doubt my heavenly Father brought us together.  

God orchestrated so many factors for Jay and I to find each other.  What if Jay hadn’t taken this teaching job in the wilds of Eastern Oregon the year before?  What if I decided not to go back to college?  What if my advisor hadn’t suggested I take geology for my science credits?  What if I continued to believe no man would ever want to marry a divorcee on welfare with three children?  What if I surrendered to the doctrine of my church that a divorced person remain single the remainder of their lives?  What if?

 “For I know the plans I have for you, ‘Declares the Lord’.  Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.”  Jeremiah 29: 11-13

                        

ABANDONMENT, ANGER AND AN ANGEL

We were in Bandon, Oregon on vacation.  Classes at Eastern Oregon University would start in a week.  My husband, Jay, was a geology professor at EOU, and this was our last chance to get away before the new school year began.  I hadn’t felt well for most of the year.  Extreme fatigue seemed to be my biggest problem, but there was also the vague sense of a floating discomfort.  Deep down I knew something else was going on inside my body; something was attacking my body.  I was scared.  It became necessary for me to close down my ten year old photography business in which I did mostly senior portraits and weddings, because I simply didn’t have the energy needed to keep working.  At this time the one thing I was thankful for was my husband’s approving of closing down the business.  

I’ve always been an energetic person.  Persistent.  Obsessive.  Organized.  And busy.  I kept a clean and organized home.  The first sign of deteriorating health was probably evident by looking at our home, which began to accumulate dirty dishes, dirty laundry and much general disorganization.  Before things got too bad my husband took over the care of our home.  Eventually the only thing I did around the house was the laundry.  All of this was so unlike me, but I didn’t have the energy to even care anymore.  What was going on with my body?  I didn’t have a clue and neither did my primary care physician.  Perhaps it had something to do with peri-menopause I told myself.  Perhaps this is just a rough patch which I have to go through, and just a natural part of heading into my 50’s.  I was 48 years old.

 While in Bandon we heard about the attack on the Twin Towers in New York City on the car radio.  We knew something was wrong when we noticed the American flag flying everywhere we drove on the coast that morning.  By the next evening I wasn’t feeling well.  My jaw started throbbing, and I told my husband I needed to see a doctor.  Jay didn’t believe I had a problem needing medical attention, and he went to bed that night in the motel perturbed with me.  

I pored a hot bath and sank into it.  I was scared because Jay was shutting down emotionally from me.  And it was directly related to my illusive physical problems.  He didn’t want to deal with yet another complaint.  The last months I’d had one excuse after another for not doing things with him.  I slept a good deal of the time.  Here we were on vacation, and it was just too much for him I guessed.  Now he was abandoning me in sleep when I needed help.  The pain in my jaw increased as I began to have difficulty opening my mouth.  I was alone in this moment.  Tears fell as I realized Jay wasn’t going to take care of me.  I seldom cried, and I hated crying now.    I realized I had to take care of myself, and drive to the hospital emergency room alone.  

I slipped out of the hotel and drove the hour to the closest coastal hospital.  The physician diagnosed an infection developing in a plugged salivary gland.  He sent me out with antibiotics and pain killers, and with instructions to see my physician as soon as we got home to La Grande, Oregon the next day.

I had an “I told you so” conversation with my husband the following morning, and he apologized for not listening to me.  By the time we arrived back to La Grande I was in excruciating pain, and had a high fever.  The doctor sent me straight over to our town’s one hospital where I spent the next three days on IV antibiotics for the severe and complex infection which attacked my salivary glands.  My salivary glands had been giving me trouble since 1991.  Ten years!  Neither I nor my doctor made any connection with my salivary gland troubles, and the increasing fatigue I was experiencing.  With hindsight being 20/20 we now know these were the first signs of an auto-immune disorder called Sjogren’s.  The symptoms were dry mouth which resulted in the lack of proper salivary gland function, and fatigue.  Dry eyes would soon follow that.  

The remainder of 2001, and into the fall of 2002 the fatigue grew worse, and I began to sleep my life away.  It wasn’t unusual to spend 16 hours, and sometimes more a day sleeping.  When awake I was listless and miserable.  Jay became less and less tolerant of my excuses for not wanting to do anything with him.  In particular, we were house hunting at this time and I didn't have much energy for such a task.  His reaction to my vague symptoms didn’t surprise me.  More then once he had told me the story of his elderly grandmother who, when feeling neglected by the family, would admit herself to the hospital in order to get attention.  After a few days she would come home “better”.  She did this numerous times.  I knew Jay was comparing me with this grandparent even though he never said so out loud.  Nothing I could say would make Jay change his mind because my physician didn’t even know what was wrong me.  It all looked suspiciously like my husband might be right to everyone but me.  Things got so bad between us that summer I left him for a week with a note on the table explaining I wouldn’t be coming back unless he agreed to joint couple’s counseling.  I was frustrated that he continued to minimize my health issues, and this is what I wanted to discuss with a third party.  A week passed, and Jay agreed to see a therapist.  I came back home, and made an appointment with a therapist for the middle of September in 2002. 

Before our appointment I began having difficulty catching my breath.  The least exertion sent me to a chair.  In the middle of the month we met my oldest daughter and her husband at Disneyland for a few days.  I required a wheelchair because of breathing  difficulties.  Jay insisted I walk the one flight of stairs to our second floor hotel room at Disneyland until he could arrange for a wheelchair.  I ended up collapsing in breathlessness and fatigue when we got to our room.  The rest of the trip I refused to walk on my own.  I became increasingly panicked about my inability to get a deep breath.  As soon as we arrived home Jay agreed to drive me to the emergency room.  A couple hours later a technician drew a half gallon of fluid from my right lung by inserting a large bore needle into my lung through my back.  I was finally able to breath freely.  What a relief it was.  And my husband once again apologized for minimizing my physical complaints.  But his minimizing continued.

During the months of November and December I was hospitalized two times for vague complaints.  My primary care physician began to take my complaints seriously, and started running many tests.  Jay however continued minimizing my problems, not so much with words but by his inattention and lack of concern.  He didn’t want to hear or talk about what was happening with me.  And I didn’t have any proof that something was very wrong with me physically.
  

While in this rundown state I contracted a nasty gastrointestinal flue which I was defenseless to fight.  One night, unable to leave the bathroom, I began calling out to Jay, begging him to take me to the hospital.  In bed he continued to sleep as if he didn’t hear me.  I crawled down the stairs, not bothering to change out of my pajamas, struggled to the car, and drove myself to the hospital.  I was placed in intensive care.  A heart scan was performed along with other tests.  Nothing!  At least that’s what the technician who performed the scan told us.  Jay arrived in time to watch the screen as the images of my beating heart played.  Fascinating!   I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.  Something looked odd.  I asked, “What’s that?”  The technician’s response was, “Oh, that’s nothing.  It’s just fluid around your heart.  Perfectly normal.  The fluid will eventually be reabsorbed by the body.”  This couldn’t have been farther from the truth, but at that moment neither Jay nor I had any idea this accumulating fluid would threaten to take my life in just a few weeks. 

Once more I was sent home with no answers, and a lot of questions.  At Christmas I found myself back in intensive care, because my organs were failing.  Jay drove me to the hospital this time, but he was confused and at a complete loss.  He wasn’t the only one.  My primary care physician became so frustrated she decided to send all my medical records, and test results to an internist at a teaching hospital in Portland; Oregon Health Sciences University.  The internist promptly requested I be airlifted immediately to OHSU because he was fairly certain I had less then 48 hours to live if his suspicions of what I had were correct.  I was flown that night in a winter storm to Portland while my husband drove the 280 miles as fast as he could to be there with me.  

A diagnosis of idiopathic pericarditis was confirmed.  In layman’s terms, my heart was failing because the lining around it, the pericardium, was inflamed.   A thick viscus fluid under the pericardium squeezed the heart so it couldn’t circulate blood properly.  If I had been put on steroids when the fluid was first discovered surgery would probably have been avoided.  Now this was a life and death situation which required immediate surgery.  Medicated on narcotics I had no idea what any of this meant.  I signed the papers agreeing to surgery because it seemed simple enough.  I thought they would just put a needle into the pericardium surrounding my heart, and draw out the excess fluid; similar to the fluid in my lungs.  No big deal.  I called each of my three adult children to explain my imminent heart surgery, and explained that it was a simple procedure, and not to worry.  Within the hour I was wheeled into the surgical suite.  I couldn’t have been more misguided about this being a simple procedure.

When I awoke I learned my sternum was sawed in half, a heart-lung machine was connected to my body to keep it supplied with oxygenated blood while my heart was removed from the chest.  That is the only way the cardiologist could remove the inflamed pericardium which surrounded the organ.  Jay had been told it was a three hour surgery so his anxiety level rose dramatically when four hours passed before he was allowed to see me.  The cardiologist explained to Jay he’d never seen a patient with such an inflamed pericardium.  The pericardium had separated into three layers by thick fluid, so each layer had to be removed individually from around the heart.  That ‘s what took the extra time.  

Four hours later I was back in recovery with tubes coming out of my body everywhere.  I had been intubated, but I fought so hard to pull it out that in ICU that they had to take that tube out or risk me detaching other more important tubes.  My parents had come to see me, but my mother panicked  when she saw me.   My dad immediately took her out of the recovery room.

I spent the first 24 hours after surgery in CCU (Coronary Care Unit).  I have one clear memory during those hours in spite of being kept pretty much “out of it” with medications.  I awoke in a panic late that night.  The male nurse watching me was actually a vampire.  He was collecting my blood in plastic zippered pillow cases in order to take them out of the hospital in the morning.  This was so real that in my terror I called my daughter, Melody, back in La Grande and told her what was happening.  She in turn called Jay, and told him to get back up to the hospital because I was hallucinating, and was terrified.  Jay had just gotten to his hotel room, but he headed right back up to calm me down.  The next day I asked to be removed from whatever medication had been administered to help me sleep.  I assumed that was the culprit which caused the hallucination which seemed so real.  

  

It took about 24 hours before I was clear-headed enough to realize what had happened to me during the four hour surgery.  How can I describe that kind of pain?  It’s pain that takes your breath away, but you have to breath anyway.  Each breath is an agonizing reminder that I was sawed in half.  Coughing is excruciating, as is breathing deeply.  With each movement pain stabbed me in the very center of my being.  When I saw the dozen or so large, dark black sutures garishly marking the center of my chest I began to understand that directly underneath the sliced skin my bony sternum was held together with wire sutures which would remain the remainder of my life unlike the nylon sutures on the outside.  Besides pain meds, the other comfort was holding a pillow gently against my chest when I moved.  I felt as though that’s the only thing that kept my heart inside my chest when I changed positions.  I didn’t feel so silly about this when a nurse presented me with a red heart-shaped pillow,  an anatomical heart printed on one side and OHSU on the other, to hold against my chest the day I was discharged.  Evidently, most open heart patients experience the illogical fear that something might fall out.

Besides excruciating pain I felt anger.  A raging, full bodied emotion propelled by the fact I’d been physically violated.  Terribly violated.  Without my permission or consent.  Yes, I signed a paper agreeing to the surgery, but I had no idea what was about to happen to me.  Yes, my life was saved, but at a huge cost, both figuratively and literally.  I was told it might take a year for me to recover fully; a year of pain as my companion.  

But there was a second reason for my rage.  During the previous year my husband punished me emotionally for what appeared to be an overactive imagination which created ever increasing health problems.  As I look back who wants their mate to have a serious health crisis especially in light of almost no scientific evidence?  Jay simply didn’t want to believe it.  I didn’t want to believe it either, but my body was sending me the ugly message that I was very sick, and getting worse.  Until finally, whatever it was attacked my heart.  

“Whatever it was” turned out to be a diagnosis of Sjogrens Auto-Immune Disorder.  Sjogren’s is a chronic autoimmune disease in which the white blood cells attack moisture-producing glands.  Although the hallmark symptoms are dry eyes and dry mouth, Sjogren’s may also cause dysfunction of other organs such as the kidneys, gastrointestinal system, blood vessels, lungs, liver, pancreas, and the central nervous system.  Patients may also experience extreme fatigue and joint pain.  Sjogren’s affects the entire body.  Symptoms may remain steady, worsen, or, uncommonly, go into remission.  While some experience mild discomfort, others suffer debilitating symptoms that greatly impair their functioning; such as in my case.  Since symptoms of Sjogren’s mimic other conditions and diseases, Sjogren’s can often be overlooked or misdiagnosed.  On average, it takes nearly seven years to receive a diagnosis of Sjorgren’s.  For me it had taken ten years!

From Sjogren’s Syndrome Foundation.

http://www.sjogrens.org/home/about-sjogrens-syndrome/symptoms

Before I left the hospital I had my diagnosis, but it didn’t relieve the anger I felt toward Jay for not believing I was really that sick during the previous months.

Between pain, and anger, and feelings of violation I became intent on making Jay, my husband of eleven years, suffer during my ten day stay in the hospital.  In my eyes Jay could do nothing right, or say anything right.  I became demanding and difficult with him.  I would order him to get me a hot dog or some other thing I felt like eating or drinking, and he would immediately head out to find the item.  When he returned with it I didn’t thank him.  He owed me!  When asked a question by a nurse, or doctor Jay tried to help me answer, but I told him to shut up.  I silenced him.  I was not nice about it, or kind, or patient.  And I didn’t even try because he deserved whatever I dished out.  I was suffering, and so would he.  I’d never been filled with such vitriol, or experienced this side of my personality.  It unsettled me.  I was downright ugly.   But I continued bullying my contrite husband in spite of his obvious desire to comply gladly no matter how I behaved.  Each time a barrage of anger let loose he remained quiet.  He never defended himself, or walked away to protect himself from my attacks.  Jay looked so sad, and dejected as if being punished for good reason.  

Many nurses took care of me through those difficult first ten days of recovery, but one in particular was an angel.  Literally perhaps.  She was Japanese with a small frame.  But it’s her voice I remember most.  After observing one of my vicious verbal attacks focused on my husband this lovely woman in white bent slowly down to whisper in my ear, “Your husband loves you very much.  He wants to help you.  Be nice to him.”  Caught completely off guard by her soft voice I found my anger soften.    A couple hours later after another outburst she bent down to whisper again, “Your husband loves you.  He cares about you.  Let him help you.”  Whenever I heard that voice it seemed as if an angel whispered to me, and my anger weakened.  The morning of my discharge this nurse got me ready.  Her last action as I sat in the wheelchair was to whisper in my ear one more time, “Your husband loves you very much.  Be kind to him.”  And I heard one more thing although the actual words weren’t spoken.  “Forgive him.”

“Forgive him.”  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It wasn’t a nice thought.  It was a command; a command from heaven above.  Two words communicated firmly, but with such love that I couldn’t argue.  I wouldn’t argue.  I looked one more time at this soft spoken nurse who addressed me as no human ever had; with God-like authority and generosity.  There was no hint of passing condemnation or shame.  This creature simply stated the facts in the most gentle way, and with palpable love.  “Your husband loves you very much.  Forgive him.”  When I left the hospital that day I left my anger as well.  I didn’t need it anymore.  I offered my husband forgiveness.

Jay was a changed man!  He waited on me hand and foot,  fixing all the meals, cleaning the house, showering me with flowers and romantic greeting cards.  He brought me lunch in bed when I didn't want to leave the bedroom, which was daily for months.  He purchased us a beautiful new bed just before I came home.  Before the surgery if I accidentally touched Jay while sleeping he would jump involuntarily, and scoot farther away from me.  Now he wanted to be touching me while we slept, even if it was just my foot or hand.  His devotion was undeniable!  All this positive attention helped me through a very difficult year of healing.      

During the next year all my focus would need to be on recovery.         

       

                              

MY NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

Do you believe people can come back from the dead?  I never thought much about this question until I had my own Near Death Experience.  

Since the year 2000 I'd become increasingly ill.  This was disheartening since I was only 48 years old at the start of chronic physical problems.  I developed Sjogrens Auto Immune Disorder which, over time, attacked my salivary glands, heart, and lungs.  At the age of 49 I needed open heart surgery for idiopathic pericarditis.  (See February '13 blog, "ABANDONMENT, ANGER AND AN ANGEL")

In 2005, three years later, I was diagnosed with an incurable lung disease.  By October 2008, at 56 years of age, I depended 24 hours a day on supplemental oxygen, and struggled with an addiction to opiates and benzodiazepines.  Due to difficulty breathing Prednisone was prescribed which brought my weight up to over 250 pounds, and necessitated two cataract surgeries.  I was often bed-ridden, and wheel chair dependent.  Severely depressed I slept an average of 16 hours a day.  I'd given up hope of ever being healthy.  I spent a lot of time in doctors offices and in the hospital, but all the doctors could do was try and manage my symptoms.

I became isolated from family because they could not comprehend what I was going through.  I had no friends because I was miserable and depressed.  I made very poor company, and stopped socializing.  I seldom left the house since I had to always have oxygen with me, but mostly my obesity shamed me.  In public people treated me differently as a direct result of my excess weight.  I saw the harsh looks, and heard the unkind comments directed at me.  Before my illness I'd been anorexic for twenty years!  The difference in the way people treated me as a heavy woman was shocking and painful.  Church attendance stopped because I felt as though God had forgotten me.  The only person in my life was my faithful husband who took care of me, but I couldn't even appreciate him.  It was the darkest time in my life, and I felt I would be better off dead.  

Three days before my accidental overdose on Valium it had became necessary to have my remaining teeth extracted due to damage from “dry mouth” associated with Sjogren's Auto Immune Disorder.  This was the straw that broke the camels back, as the old saying goes.  A valium drip was used to sedate me for the surgery, but Post Traumatic Stress kept me from completely going under.  I have absolutely no memory of the gruesome dental surgery, or my fighting the dentist or yelling for him to stop.  My husband witnessed all this, and told me about it later.  I also have no memory of the following three days at home recovering while I self-medicated on my stash of Valium.  Then I overdosed. 

I remember only one moment clearly.  October 23rd at 8:30 in the morning I heard the voice of God say, "Call 911".  I began to argue with the voice because I felt just fine.  I was in a place where there was no light, no sound, no feeling.  Nothing.  But it was a very peaceful place.  Then the voice of God commanded more firmly, "Call 911" and He added the word "NOW".  I don't remember making the phone call, the ambulance attendants taking vitals, or putting me on a gurney and transporting me to the emergency room, or the fiasco that took place at the hospital to save my life.  I remember absolutely nothing but the powerful yet loving voice of God calling me back to life.  It was a profound moment which forever changed me in many ways.

I awoke in intensive care with inhalation pneumonia in both diseased lungs, intubated, and very confused.  When the tube was removed I was unable to speak, or write.  It's like my brain had been "rebooted" and I had to re-learn these things all over again.  After I completely woke up, and the intubation tubes were removed, and I had stabilized enough to be moved out of intensive care into a regular room, I knew the only reason I was alive was because God had literally called me back to life.  If I had not called 911 early that morning my husband would have found me dead that evening when he got home from work.  I knew I should (and perhaps did) die, but God protected me and brought me back!  I was ecstatic!  I felt God’s love in the most profound way, and I couldn't stop talking about Him or giving Him praise.  

While in the hospital, on top of my positive mental attitude and spiritual awakening, I quickly discovered I had NO PAIN anywhere in my body.  I'd been taking opiates for 20 years for chronic back pain.  Pain was part of my everyday life.  AND I'd just had all my teeth removed; yet I felt NO back pain, or mouth pain in spite of a mouth full of sutures.  When my primary care physician suggested I be taken off all Valium, and most of the opiates I readily agreed because I was "healed".  That's what popped out of my mouth. “I’m healed!”  I had no idea what I'd been healed from, but I "knew" my body was different, and God was totally responsible.  Seven days later I was released from the hospital to recover from inhalation pneumonia, and begin withdrawal from three different drugs.

For three months I was desperately sick from withdrawal symptoms, and didn't leave my bed except to use the bathroom.  I lost 50 pounds.  As horrific a time this was for me physically I was filled with joy, and happiness, and peace.  God was in that room with me; encouraging me, teaching me, and showering me with love.  I heard God's voice giving me instructions as to how I was to live my life from that time on.  In what I'm sure must be record time the pneumonia disappeared.  Remember, when I contracted double pneumonia I had diseased lungs which didn't work properly.  The fact that my lungs healed in just 3 months is incredible!   But much more was happening to my body.  Six months after my overdose I stopped using supplemental oxygen during the day, and by the eighth month I stopped using oxygen altogether.  All my Sjogren's symptoms completely disappeared!  My mouth, which hadn't produced saliva in over 15 years became moist.  My eyes became moist as well.  

By the time the worst of the withdrawal symptoms disappeared (just three months) my back pain slowly returned, but it was completely manageable now with a minimum of medication.  I've had individuals tell me it took them over a year to withdraw from the amount of Valium I'd been taking.  Over a year!  And I was feeling normal in just three months!  I also asked my physician if there was any possible natural explanation for the three months of no back pain while I was going through withdrawal.  She shook her head no, and added she’d never heard of anyone who didn’t have INCREASED pain during the first months of withdrawal from opiates.  She said there was absolutely no explanation for my lack of pain.  This was just another incredible miracle!  

On the one year anniversary of the overdose my physician could find NO disease in my lungs.  It was as though I'd never had a lung disease, much less an incurable one.  There was no residual lung damage.  She was astounded!  So was my pulmonolgist when she saw me.  Both doctors told me that this sort of thing NEVER happens, and that there was no explanation.  Also, the auto immune disease Sjogrens disappeared as well.  I was more healthy then I'd been in over 15 years.  I knew I'd been healed physically by God.

During that same year many other changes began happening to my body, mind and spirit; increased sense of smell, more tolerant and accepting of other’s beliefs, less controlling and less obsessive behaviors, “evangelistic” about telling others about God's love, less materialistic, a better listener, cured of bi-polar disorder and chronic depression!  In my life before the overdose I seldom read a book; now I’m an AVID reader, and “consume” four or more books a month.  I've read the entire Bible three times!  My 22 year marriage is profoundly stronger then I even knew was possible!  And I continue to be in excellent health.   These are some of the changes that have transpired in the last almost six years.  I give God the glory!   

I didn't understand what was happening to me until I began to read about “Near Death Experiences”, and the profound effects of such an experience.  (Read my blog, "The Fascinating Subject Of Near Death Experiences" in June, '13)  My spirit confirmed that the close call with death during my Valium overdose was a Near Death Experience.  

On October 23, 2014 it will be six years since my NDE.  My life will never be the same. Praise God!  This has created nothing but positive changes in my life, and marriage.  My husband, who never believed in a personal God, now believes in a God who loves and cares for us because of the miracles he's seen in my body, mind, and spirit.  We are involved in a spirit-filled Four Square Gospel church, and I LIVE MY FAITH!  I speak of my experience whenever I'm given the opportunity.  The message I want to communicate with anyone who will listen is that God loves us beyond measure.  Jesus' love is the ultimate answer to any problem.  We can trust our Heavenly Father and His Son with our lives!  No matter how dark things may seem in our lives, God is there with us!

This photo was taken of me one year before my Near-Death Experience.

  This photo was taken two months after my overdose while still on oxygen.

This was taken one year after my Near-Death Experience with my adult children!